It's been an unusually long and harsh winter, and we're just starting to see signs of spring. Here is one sign of spring at Madonna University: the newest issue of MU Voices. On these pages, you'll read inspiring stories, thought-provoking poems, imaginative fiction, and compelling artwork.
We hope you enjoy this issue, and that you add your encouraging comments to the contributions that move you. Just as we have sought warmth during our severe winter, our authors and artists appreciate the warmth of a kind word.
Frances FitzGerald, editor
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Here and Now, by DeCarlo Burris
This is my moment…
I have been told against my opinions
Transparent
to the living
My
passion died before the ending
Just
at the beginning.
I
determined how I would tell my story
And
through His glory
I
am free.
I Want to Do More, by D'Marco Redd
I
want talk about how important community involvement, especially in our community. I’m a freshman in
college. My major is sports management, and I hold a 3.6 G.P.A at Madonna
University. Before I came to Madonna University, I didn’t know what I wanted to
do with my life.
When
the BLG program and Madonna introduced me to the idea of giving back to the
community, I finally said, this is my purpose. One day we went to Christ Child
House, where there were kids who were abused, neglected, and had nobody but
themselves. We ate, played indoor and outdoor activities, and talked to them
about different things. When the day was over, I knew it wasn’t enough; I
wasn’t satisfied with myself until I gave it my all. I knew helping people was
my purpose, and when I finally realized it, I decided to do more. When the kids
from Marcus Garvey came to Madonna University, we talked to them about college,
ate pizza, and took them to a volleyball game. When that happened, I still
didn’t feel satisfied, and it felt like God wanted me to do more. I also wanted
to do more for myself as well, help anybody out as much as I could. The kids
need us more to be an influence, and really talk to them and show them the
right path.
Real
life was coming as soon as I graduated from high school. The next step was
going into the Navy. I knew I didn’t want to go into the Navy, so I had to find
the next step I was going to take to become a step closer to success. Before I
graduated, I met this guy name Bryant George. I was a part of Real Life 101,
and we talked about college and what the standards were to get into Madonna
University. Even though I didn’t have the ACT scores or the grades, Madonna
University and Bryant George took a chance on me. I’m glad they did because I
continue to show them my intelligence and what I can do.
When
the BLG program and Madonna introduced me to the idea of giving back to the
community, I finally said, this is my purpose. One day we went to Christ Child
House, where there were kids who were abused, neglected, and had nobody but
themselves. We ate, played indoor and outdoor activities, and talked to them
about different things. When the day was over, I knew it wasn’t enough; I
wasn’t satisfied with myself until I gave it my all. I knew helping people was
my purpose, and when I finally realized it, I decided to do more. When the kids
from Marcus Garvey came to Madonna University, we talked to them about college,
ate pizza, and took them to a volleyball game. When that happened, I still
didn’t feel satisfied, and it felt like God wanted me to do more. I also wanted
to do more for myself as well, help anybody out as much as I could. The kids
need us more to be an influence, and really talk to them and show them the
right path.
I
didn’t stop there. When the Christ Child House came to Madonna University and spent
time with us, the BLG students talked to them about life, we ate pizza, and—my personal
favorite—we played basketball. After that event was over, we just had a
reflection about what everyone learned and how they enjoyed themselves. We are
really their brothers, and the BLG program really wants every single one of the
kids to be successful in their own ways.
I
love that I can give back and be there for the kids when they need someone to
talk to. To know that you can possibly be their hero or really influence them
is a great feeling and makes you feel good about youself inside.
At
this point, I still didn’t feel it was enough, so I decided to volunteer at the
YMCA. I’m really dedicated to my community and I really love my community.
There be days when it is below zero degrees outside and raining, but I still
walk to the YMCA for the kids and the community. I walk to the YMCA every day,
even when it’s so cold I can’t feel my jaw, fingers, or anything else. The kids
are worth it, and to be able to see them grow up and be successful is
priceless. All kids need is a little guidance and someone to show them the way,
and I’m going to be that kid who does it. I feel like this because when Madonna
University gave back and accepted me into college, I knew I had to give back to
others.
I’m
going to continue to do it as well. I just want thank Madonna University and
BLG program for giving me the opportunity. I also want to thank Real life 101
as well for investing in me and believing I could do it. To have support, in no
matter what you do, makes a big difference in your life. For people to care if
you go to school and make something out of your life is very powerful. The
person I want thank the most is God. Without him none of this will be here or be
possible.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
May 7th, by Jim Routhier
I joined the Army at seventeen. Fresh out
of high school, that was me. I had graduated at sixteen, the result of an
experiment conducted at my middle school to promote four sixth grade honor
students directly to the eighth grade. I was a freshman at age twelve and a
high school graduate at sixteen. At seventeen, you need the signature of a
parent or guardian to enlist. My father provided the signature. That only
seemed right since it was his side of the family that I was honoring by
selecting the Army as my chosen branch of service. I had made it known at a
young age that I intended to join the military after high school. I was
actively recruited by the Army and the Navy. I chose the Army, just like my
brother, my father, his father and his father had done. It was a tradition I
was proud to carry on. Basic and advanced individual training at Ft. McClellan,
Alabama, was followed by an assignment to a unit of the 24th
Infantry Division at Ft. Stewart, Georgia.
Things happened fast after this. He told
me he had an emergency message for me from the Red Cross. I watched him take a
deep breath, and then his gaze met mine directly, “Your Father is dead,” he
said simply.
I remember two immediate reactions: a
ringing in my ears and my knees starting to buckle from under me. I grabbed the
front of his desk for support. His expression changed; realization flashed
across his face. I don’t think the proffering of a chair prior to delivering
such news even occurred to him until just that moment. He told me to sit down
in one of the two chairs that stood against the wall behind me. I sat down, the
ringing in my ears subsiding a bit. He watched me silently as I struggled to
fight back an almost uncontrollable urge to cry. I was determined not to show
any more emotion in front of my Commanding Officer than I already had.
“I suppose you will want to go home on
leave,” he said.
May 7, 1985, was a Tuesday. I’ll remember
that simple fact for the rest of my life. This was the day I became a man. I
was 18 by this time. Legally an adult, but not so much emotionally, and not at
all in terms of world experience. I was at my work area at the Company
Headquarters of my assigned unit, Alpha Co, 3rd Combat Engineer
Battalion at Ft. Stewart, Georgia. Working at my desk, I noticed that it was
nearly time for the afternoon Company formation. I quickly secured my work area
and headed for our Company’s formation area. In the case of Alpha Company, our
assigned area was the parking lot of our barracks. Three times a day, my
Company would assemble for formation. Every day, Monday through Friday, all 200
men assigned to my Company would assemble each morning, afternoon and evening.
At these formations, we would form into our respective Platoons and a head
count would be taken, followed by any announcements and hopefully, mail call,
which meant letters from home. This particular formation went much like any
other, without any direct involvement by me, until I heard the Company First
Sergeant calling out my name and ordering me to report to the Company Commander
immediately after the formation’s conclusion. I acknowledged the order, and
shortly thereafter, the formation ended.
As I walked back to the Company
Headquarters, I wondered why the Commander would want to see me. As part of my
job, I interacted with him as needed, but for me to be ordered to report to him
meant one of two things: I had done something really worth note, or I had
really screwed up. Before I even
realized it, I stood outside the Commander’s office. Nervously, I rapped
lightly on the doorframe to announce my presence, and stepped in front of his
desk. After he returned my hand salute, he ordered me to “Stand at ease.” This
command permitted me to relax from the position of Attention, but to remain
standing in place.
Things happened fast after this. He told
me he had an emergency message for me from the Red Cross. I watched him take a
deep breath, and then his gaze met mine directly, “Your Father is dead,” he
said simply.
His voice sounded like Ebenezer Scrooge
asking Bob Cratchet if he expected Christmas Day off yet again this year. My
Commander was not the most compassionate man. I nodded, still not having yet
found my voice. He ordered me to report to the Company Clerk for travel orders.
With that command, and the necessary information disseminated, he ended the
meeting and dismissed me.
Our Company Clerk, Staff Sergeant Hartwig,
was a decent man. Friendly, with a kind face, he adopted the new guys to our
unit and made sure they learned the ropes and didn’t anger the other sergeants
too much. He met me as I exited the Commander’s office and handed me
handwritten travel orders already prepared in my name. I left the Company Headquarters and quickly
made my way to the nearest pay phone—no cell phones in those days—and called
home.
It was during this phone call that hastily
arranged travel plans would be made, and I would learn of my father’s cause of
death. I learned that he had committed suicide using the shotgun, my shotgun,
kept at his home. Unbeknownst to him, his action would shatter my family, and
we would never truly recover from the effects of his decision. However, all of
that would come later. For now, I hung up the phone, and started to walk back
to the barracks. I had to first pack and then get to the airport. As I walked,
I sobbed openly. My father was dead and, for the first time in my life, I felt
truly alone in the world. Whether I was ready or not, I became a man on May 7th.
The Light of the Sun, by Laura Haldane
I
stare down at my turquoise and yellow paisley flip-flops and flex my toes,
trying to get the blood flowing again. I’m pretty sure my feet are turning
blue, but it’s hard to tell in this light.
Socks would have been a great idea. I yawn, hoping this spectacle will
be worth the pre-6:00 a.m. wake-up. I’ve never willingly risen before the
sun—lugging myself out of bed any time before 9:00 a.m. counts as early in my
book. I can already tell I will not be making a habit of it. But since an
all-day car ride is the only thing I have to look forward to, I figure I can join
the early birds, just this once.
I
shift my weight around a bit in an attempt to prevent my legs from locking up.
Two of my classmates and I wait in friendly silence on the sun-washed wooden
dock that juts out into the Gulf of Mexico. We clutch cameras in our hands,
eyes focused on the sky to the left of our position, watching for the first
hints of the sun’s 6:11 a.m. awakening.
Sunrises start slowly. At first, the sky stratifies into layers. Warm reds and oranges rest on the horizon like a blanket. A color somewhere between purple and blue dominates the rest of the heavens. The Gulf waters take on the same hue as the sky above, the shoreline acting as a stark boundary between the two. My breath clouds the air, mimicking the fog that drifts over the surface of the ocean.
The sky lightens in small increments, preparing us for what’s to come. A luminescent strip of yellow begins to creep over the treetops. As the light appears, I am suddenly more aware of myself than ever before. My body feels strange, but familiar at the same time. For one of the few times in my life, I am fully immersed in the present moment. I don’t think of the cramped white van with the California license plate we will soon be piling into, or the fact we will be leaving Mississippi for wintery Michigan in a few short hours. I pay no attention to my cold feet.
I
forget I am on a dock in front of the Gulf Coast Research Lab in Ocean Springs
in 2011. I feel as if I have been transported to a time long past. Pelicans and
gulls appear as black shapes against the firmament, looking like flying,
prehistoric creatures. The forest trees on the horizon transform into the
canopy of a tropical jungle. If I ignore the lawn chairs and the dorm building
behind me, I may as well be in the Mesozoic Era, when dinosaurs roamed and
humans were not even players on the universal stage.
This prelude to the sunrise feels like the tuning of an orchestra. The musicians begin to warm up, and the instruments come together to create an almost palpable burst of sound, a wave of noise that washes over the audience like a sentient breeze. In the same way, the individual wavelengths of light combine in a visual melody to herald in the start of a new day.
The sun’s halo appears first. Like the overture of a musical, it hints at the splendor that will soon follow. It starts off as a burnt orange and then slowly morphs into buttercup yellow as it rises in the sky, pushing back the remaining blue mantle of the night. For the first time, I am part of the audience for nature’s longest running show. I am at the figurative edge of my seat, eyes riveted on center stage.
Finally, the curtains part and the star of the show appears. It bursts over the top of the trees, singing an aria for my eyes, rather than my ears. Its light illuminates the tendrils of fog, transforming them into tongues of flame that dance around the radiant orb. It quickly begins to rise above the trees, and my eyes tear up from its brightness. The Gulf reflects its brilliance as a second sphere appears in the water.
I want to dive into the ocean and swim into the center of the sun’s reflected twin. I have just witnessed what feels like the dawning of the world, a spectacle as old as the Earth, yet new as the day that has just begun. I have experienced beauty in its truest, rawest form.
In
some of my memories, I’m looking at myself from a distance, a simple spectator,
rather than a player in the unfolding action. When I recall the last day of my
alternative spring break, I only see the sunrise. This remembrance plays out in
front of me like a movie on a screen—and I watch it through my own eyes—perhaps
because of the scale of its magnificence.
In the light of the rising sun, I became just another miniscule part of the universe. Yet in my smallness, I did not become inconsequential, but momentous. I transformed into a being of infinite power and immeasurable possibility. I joined the world around me, connected with the sea birds, the twisted trees of the shoreline, and the waving water grasses.
The pictures I took make my heart ache with their beauty, but they are only a shadow of the spectacle. Two-dimensional mementos of that wild grandeur do not make up for the real thing. But they have preserved the memory of that magical morning. For that, I am grateful.
Rachel Carson tells us, “In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the Earth.” Each daybreak ushers in a new chapter of this planet’s history. For roughly 4.5 billion years, the sun has poured its light onto this planet, providing fuel to the living creatures who call Earth home. This life-granting body has witnessed the entirety of human history and all that came before. What tales it would tell, if only it could speak.
Yet, the sun has a story of its own. Its legacy can be found in everything from the iridescent trees and jewel-toned flowers, to the miniscule phytoplankton and colossal whale. Humans, too, make up this narrative, of equal importance with all the other characters.
A law of radiation states that any object that absorbs light must also emit light. The sun passes its energy to us, and we glow in return. Sunlight pulses through the veins of all life. We must never forget that we are creatures of both sunlight and starlight. And we should never be afraid to shine.
I
shift my weight around a bit in an attempt to prevent my legs from locking up.
Two of my classmates and I wait in friendly silence on the sun-washed wooden
dock that juts out into the Gulf of Mexico. We clutch cameras in our hands,
eyes focused on the sky to the left of our position, watching for the first
hints of the sun’s 6:11 a.m. awakening. Sunrises start slowly. At first, the sky stratifies into layers. Warm reds and oranges rest on the horizon like a blanket. A color somewhere between purple and blue dominates the rest of the heavens. The Gulf waters take on the same hue as the sky above, the shoreline acting as a stark boundary between the two. My breath clouds the air, mimicking the fog that drifts over the surface of the ocean.
The sky lightens in small increments, preparing us for what’s to come. A luminescent strip of yellow begins to creep over the treetops. As the light appears, I am suddenly more aware of myself than ever before. My body feels strange, but familiar at the same time. For one of the few times in my life, I am fully immersed in the present moment. I don’t think of the cramped white van with the California license plate we will soon be piling into, or the fact we will be leaving Mississippi for wintery Michigan in a few short hours. I pay no attention to my cold feet.
I
forget I am on a dock in front of the Gulf Coast Research Lab in Ocean Springs
in 2011. I feel as if I have been transported to a time long past. Pelicans and
gulls appear as black shapes against the firmament, looking like flying,
prehistoric creatures. The forest trees on the horizon transform into the
canopy of a tropical jungle. If I ignore the lawn chairs and the dorm building
behind me, I may as well be in the Mesozoic Era, when dinosaurs roamed and
humans were not even players on the universal stage. This prelude to the sunrise feels like the tuning of an orchestra. The musicians begin to warm up, and the instruments come together to create an almost palpable burst of sound, a wave of noise that washes over the audience like a sentient breeze. In the same way, the individual wavelengths of light combine in a visual melody to herald in the start of a new day.
The sun’s halo appears first. Like the overture of a musical, it hints at the splendor that will soon follow. It starts off as a burnt orange and then slowly morphs into buttercup yellow as it rises in the sky, pushing back the remaining blue mantle of the night. For the first time, I am part of the audience for nature’s longest running show. I am at the figurative edge of my seat, eyes riveted on center stage.
Finally, the curtains part and the star of the show appears. It bursts over the top of the trees, singing an aria for my eyes, rather than my ears. Its light illuminates the tendrils of fog, transforming them into tongues of flame that dance around the radiant orb. It quickly begins to rise above the trees, and my eyes tear up from its brightness. The Gulf reflects its brilliance as a second sphere appears in the water.
I want to dive into the ocean and swim into the center of the sun’s reflected twin. I have just witnessed what feels like the dawning of the world, a spectacle as old as the Earth, yet new as the day that has just begun. I have experienced beauty in its truest, rawest form.
In
some of my memories, I’m looking at myself from a distance, a simple spectator,
rather than a player in the unfolding action. When I recall the last day of my
alternative spring break, I only see the sunrise. This remembrance plays out in
front of me like a movie on a screen—and I watch it through my own eyes—perhaps
because of the scale of its magnificence.
In the light of the rising sun, I became just another miniscule part of the universe. Yet in my smallness, I did not become inconsequential, but momentous. I transformed into a being of infinite power and immeasurable possibility. I joined the world around me, connected with the sea birds, the twisted trees of the shoreline, and the waving water grasses.
The pictures I took make my heart ache with their beauty, but they are only a shadow of the spectacle. Two-dimensional mementos of that wild grandeur do not make up for the real thing. But they have preserved the memory of that magical morning. For that, I am grateful.
Rachel Carson tells us, “In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the Earth.” Each daybreak ushers in a new chapter of this planet’s history. For roughly 4.5 billion years, the sun has poured its light onto this planet, providing fuel to the living creatures who call Earth home. This life-granting body has witnessed the entirety of human history and all that came before. What tales it would tell, if only it could speak.
Yet, the sun has a story of its own. Its legacy can be found in everything from the iridescent trees and jewel-toned flowers, to the miniscule phytoplankton and colossal whale. Humans, too, make up this narrative, of equal importance with all the other characters.
A law of radiation states that any object that absorbs light must also emit light. The sun passes its energy to us, and we glow in return. Sunlight pulses through the veins of all life. We must never forget that we are creatures of both sunlight and starlight. And we should never be afraid to shine.
Fadeaway, by Rebekah Phillips
We
were used, by now, to seeing Alice sit by herself. That was fine with us. She
didn’t fit in, and she knew it. Every game, she would sidle in five minutes
early, her backpack slung over her shoulder, and she would sit down by herself
on the bleachers as far away from everyone as possible. Reaching into her
backpack, she would draw out a biology textbook, put it on her lap, and proceed
to look studious and turn pages until the game was over. Who studied at a
basketball game? Who, but Alice Palmer?
Dillon’s chance came as Brent dribbled the ball cross-court. Dillon caught him, and they fell to the floor, kicking and grabbing like animals. The refs blew the whistle, but still Dillon fought. “Fifth personal foul for number 33, Dillon Ratz,” the announcer said, as the refs finally got Dillon off of his rival. “Two penalty shots for the Timberwolves!”
“Dillon!”
we heard him cry.
Brent
shoved Dillon’s hand off his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
“What’s
his problem?” Brent asked Alice, but his coach, too, had grabbed hold of him,
and was dragging him to the locker room.
“Not
really. I…”
“Then
end it. End it now.” That was Katrina.
“I
didn’t think it would be a big deal—that he would notice, and start to think...He
never seemed to want me here. He always acts so ashamed. Ashamed—of me.” Her
wild eyes met ours, darting from face to face like a convicted prisoner. She
did not like the answer she saw there. Alice grabbed her backpack and ran,
awkwardly, towards the boy’s locker room. We followed. We had boyfriends of our
own that would come looking for us soon; they would want our ears, to complain
about bad calls and fouls and hate on Fatass and that Brent Oliver who ran so
quickly. Katrina was smiling, smug and assured. Dillon was hers again.
“We
lost the game to them!”
Over
time, she had become the brunt of our jokes. Whenever one of us stayed home on
a Friday or a Saturday night to study instead of going out with us to the frat
house, or the bar, or the club, sometimes one of our apartments, we’d say,
“Sure, you and Alice both.” We had never seen her drink, at least, not to the
point that she would slur her words and forget who she was and who she was with
and actually open up to us as a person. Dillon had managed to drag her along to
one house party, and she spent the entire time smiling as if it hurt.
Dillon
hated when we made these jokes. “Why can’t you just leave her alone?” he asked
us, as close as he ever got to being mad. Alice was his, had been for two
months now. He had found her in a biology lab and dumped Katrina for her. We
never really recovered from that. Katrina was the star of the Apostles’ volleyball
team, whom he had been seeing on and off for two years: Alice was nice, but she
wasn’t one of us. It was a foreign concept, for one of our own to be dating a
geek. She did biology homework at basketball
games, for Christ’s sake.
We
got used to her, but we never got friendly. She never tried to get friendly
with us, either. Every game, for two months, we’d find her with her biology
book on her lap, a yellow highlighter spinning in her fingers. She only looked
up when the coach played Dillon, but it was more of a half-eye—she was looking
at Dillon, but her mind was still off with Charles Darwin. It wasn’t like it
was hard to spot Dillon. He stood out. He was 6”5, our center, and to top that
off, he shaved his head. He was the first person you’d spot out there on the
court.
Why
did he like her? We never understood that. We knew she was pretty, but she had
no self-confidence. Everything about her screamed that she was trying too hard.
High heels she couldn’t walk in, skinny jeans she kept tugging up at the waist
but down at the knees, hair she was continually pushing out of her eyes. Why
did she bother? But beyond her nervous, fidgety beauty, all there was to her
was school. She could talk our ears off about revolutionary scientific
breakthroughs, lab accidents, evolution. Alice never talked about anything
else. Anything that mattered.
She
didn’t even know how to play euchre.
Everyone
has those little phases, where they fall for someone they shouldn’t. That was,
we hoped, all there was to Dillon and Alice. A few weeks more, give or take, to
let the spell she’d put on him wane, and the whole thing would run its course.
He and Katrina would go right back to where they left off, and Alice would
leave our lives forever. They had to be feeling the strain; how could a
basketball star and a bookworm ever be happy together?
Something
changed the night of our game against the Northern Timberwolves. We didn’t even
notice the dynamic had shifted. The girls’ game had run late, and we were
scrambling. The roads were bad, so the bleachers were emptier than usual. Shoes
squeaked on the floor. The dance team pranced, their pasted smiles wide and
lipstick-y. And Alice had a smile on her face we’d never seen before.
There
was no book on her lap, for one thing. Her eyes were feverish and over-bright,
focused as never before on the basketball court. But it wasn’t Dillon she was
watching. Her eyes were on the opposing team, the Northern Timberwolves. Well,
we thought, life will go back to normal once the game starts. Alice will pull
out her textbook and whisper the names of different nucleic acids to herself. All
will be as it should be.
The
announcer introduced us to each other in the pre-game parade, our boys making a
show of how vivacious they were, how high they could jump. Dillon never seemed
as vibrant as he did then. We could see him laughing with the assistant coach,
his face flushed with excitement and adrenaline. All men look like that, before
the blow. The dance team left the floor, dropping their Barbie smiles and
pulling out their cell phones. Rammstein filled the speaker systems, and the
game began.
Plays
came and went. Fouls were called. None of us noticed. We were watching Alice,
who was watching the Timberwolves. There was still no book on her lap, and we
realized, slowly, that no book would appear. Who was she watching? 12, the
stocky African American we had nicknamed Fatass, because of how far he stuck
his butt out when he took a shot? 24, the point guard? 5, with the dreadlocks?
Her eyes were following someone. But the pace of the game was moving quickly,
even for us, and as soon as we thought we had him, a buzzer would sound, a ref
would whistle, the coach would start to shout and swear and would pull someone
back onto the bench. And he, whoever he was, would be lost to us.
17-15.
20-20. Never once were we in the safe zone, the security ten points gives us;
we were always hanging on by the skin of our teeth, neck and neck. 25-30.
26-32. And Alice Palmer—who we secretly thought didn’t understand anything
about basketball—was following every play.
Five
minutes before halftime, behind by two points, a small, lithe boy stole the
ball from Dillon and shot it from outside the blue line. For a second it rolled
around the hoop, deciding if it wanted to go in or not. We held our breath and
prayed. Then, slowly, wavering, it went through. The Timberwolves fans
screamed. Alice stood up, clapping as we had never seen her clap before.
“Brr-ent Olivers, number 1, scoring there for three points,” the announcer
rumbled.
Brent
Olivers. He had a name now. Alice was cheering for Brent. On the court, Dillon
rubbed his forehead, then wiped his hands on the soles of his shoes. Even from
the bleachers, we could see that a lost look had come into his eyes. Dillon had
noticed that his girlfriend was cheering for someone else.
At
half-time the dance team came out again, all smiles and insincere charm.
Usually we would split up, succumbing to the call of the concession stand,
making a quick dash to the restroom, moving across the bleachers and striking
up a conversation with a friend sitting far away. We did not do that this time.
We were riveted, watching as Alice smiled at the dance team with her chin on
her hand. Someone sitting nearby her said something, and she laughed—Alice!
Laugh! She sparkled for the first time, and we started to see a little of the
person Dillon had fallen for over those shared biology labs. But no matter how
beautiful she looked as she sang and danced along to “Timber,” we knew the end
of her time had come.
Dillon
in the second half was angry, desperate. He made shots he shouldn’t have and
missed them all. He got three personal fouls called against him in the space of
ten minutes. Pull him out, we pleaded
silently with the coach. Before he costs
us the game. “Dillon, for God’s sake, watch it!” the coach howled. But
Dillon stayed in the game. We could only watch as Brent dived under Dillon’s
long arms, too short and fast to catch, and made shot after shot. Alice cheered
for Brent, every time. Dillon would lick his lips, his eyes flickering to an
oblivious Alice, and the cycle would repeat.
Dillon’s chance came as Brent dribbled the ball cross-court. Dillon caught him, and they fell to the floor, kicking and grabbing like animals. The refs blew the whistle, but still Dillon fought. “Fifth personal foul for number 33, Dillon Ratz,” the announcer said, as the refs finally got Dillon off of his rival. “Two penalty shots for the Timberwolves!”
The
coach pulled Dillon aside and spoke sharply to him, but Dillon wasn’t
listening. He kept looking helplessly at the bleachers, towards Alice, longing
to go to her.
Was
Alice looking back at him? We couldn’t tell. Dillon took a spot on “the
bench”—really, just a couple of plush folding chairs—but he wasn’t watching the
game anymore, even though we were losing by ten points. He sat there, jiggling
his legs, bobbing his head, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Every few
seconds he would look over his shoulder, towards his wayward girlfriend. Alice,
who had eyes only for Brent Oliver, who did not seem to notice or care that her
boyfriend was anxious and that we were losing. Well, this was what came of
dating your lab partner. Katrina puffed herself up and smiled, sending pointed
looks in Dillon’s direction.
None
of us had expected that, when the time finally came to call off this charade,
Dillon would look so frightened. He reminded us of a child waiting for bad
news. But what could we say? Alice was not like us. She would never be like us.
It was better to end this now. We tore our eyes away from Dillon and from Alice
and encouraged our team to make up for the damage Dillon had done—that Alice
had done. All the while Dillon shifted, unable to keep still.
We
lost the game by fifteen points. We sighed, stretching out our sore muscles,
and cast nasty looks at the opposing team. On the bench, our boys stood up and
slowly shuffled towards the other team to shake their hands and say, Good game. Good game. For the losers,
these words are always a lie.
When
Dillon stood in front of Brent we flinched and held our breath, unsure of what
to expect. A muscle ticked in Dillon’s face, and Brent laughed. He shook
Dillon’s hand amiably, unaware that anything was amiss, and then moved on.
Dillon stood there frozen, his eyes again scanning the crowd for Alice. We did
not know if he found her. The audience was standing up and moving, and we could
not see Alice for the crowd. What we did see, however, was Brent turning around
again after the end of the line-up and walking straight to Alice.
We
knew what would happen before anyone else. Dillon saw him and went after him,
his jaw tight, murder in his eyes. Brent didn’t notice; his eyes were light and
monkey-ish, trained on Alice. The crowd had thinned enough that we could see
her rise to greet him. “Brent,” we saw her say, her lips forming his name as if
she had been intimate with it once. We rose, too.
Dillon
put his hand on Brent’s shoulder and turned him around to face him. “What’s
your problem?” he snarled, and we could hear him even where we were. Slowly we
were closing ranks. Across court, the assistant coach jumped up as he saw what
was about to happen.
“Dillon,”
Alice said.
The
assistant coach forced his way through the crowd, but we blocked him as best we
could. Let Dillon have his out. He needed to prove to himself that he was still
in control, that he was going to leave Alice, and not the other way around. We
would not let him miss out on that chance.
“Stay
away from my girlfriend,” Dillon snarled, and Brent laughed, looking from Alice
to Dillon.
“I
didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”
Dillon
pushed up against him. “Now you do.”
“Dillon.” This from
Alice.
The
assistant coach made it to Dillon’s side and started to pull him away. Brent’s
coach, too, was hopping chairs to get to Jersey Number 1. “She’s my girlfriend,” he shouted as he was
dragged away.
Who
was Alice watching leave? Both men left through the same door. She stood there,
quivering, and then turned to us. “We grew up together,” she said, her voice
higher pitched than normal. “I…was he jealous? Why was he jealous?”
Smart
girls don’t know anything about the things that matter.
“Because
you’re his girlfriend.”
“She
messed up,” we all agreed.
So
what if Brent was an old friend? She had cheered for him when she had never
cheered for Dillon. Alice did not understand and never would understand. It was
better that she just leave.
She
waited there outside of the locker room with us, watching as our boys slowly
filed out and put their arms around us, off to dinner. We had expected this.
She would wait for him, and try to explain away her behavior, begging for
forgiveness. It did not surprise us that she had fallen in love with Dillon; it
surprised us that he had fallen for her. Her heart would mend. Probably.
Dillon
came out into the hall, his eyes on the ground. He looked up once,
involuntarily, and Alice stepped forward, making a strange noise in the back of
her throat. He stopped, still trying to find an answer in the tiles beneath his
feet. Two months they had been dating, and they were as awkward around each
other as newborn kittens.
“What
was that, Alice?” he said, finally. “What was that?”
“He’s
an old friend. We went to high school together.”
Alice
smiled faintly. “He was always good at basketball.”
Dillon
looked at her, and he did not like what he saw. “I can’t handle this right
now.”
“Then
when?” Alice blocked him, as if she was a center herself, guarding the hoop.
“We should talk about how you never seem to want me around—how ashamed you are
of me—”
“Ashamed?”
Dillon spat, running his hand over his smooth head. “Ashamed of you? Christ,
Alice.”
She
winced. Alice was Catholic, one of the few of us who went to Augustine
University because of religion, and not just because she was offered sports
scholarships.
“It’s
not as if you weren’t showing off how much smarter you are than me. Up there in
the stands, always studying. I’m just managing Bs in my forensics classes but
you—you rub my face in it.”
Alice’s
face twisted. “Are you saying I’m too smart
for you?” She looked at us. “That I’m a snob?”
Dillon’s
eyes raked over us, too, witnesses to Alice’s outsider status. “You didn’t seem
happy. I didn’t think I was making you happy. I thought that if maybe it were
different, if I was smarter—”
“Well,
that’s both of us, then.”
He
shook his head, licked his lips. “Do you like him, then? That Barney
Olivander?”
We
hadn’t realized how much Dillon loved her until he said that. Men never mangle
other men’s names unless they are jealous and hurting. We looked at each other,
wondering. Could he really be in love with that beautiful dancing girl? Could
she really be in love with our Dillon?
She
opened her mouth, but said nothing. We watched her swallow twice. Then she hung
her head in defeat. Dillon nodded once, pursed his lips. That was a yes, wasn’t
it? She liked that Timberwolf more than her boyfriend?
It
was the pain in his eyes that made us do it (all of us but Katrina, anyway). We
reached out and gave her a little push. She looked at us, as if to say, Are you sure this is right? We gave a
little, imperceptible nod. “Dillon,” she said. And she stepped forward, closer
and closer, until she threw her arms around Dillon. His long arms wrapped
around her, and he whispered into her hair. He held her as if he wouldn’t let
her go—and she held him as if he was the only thing she was sure of.
We
saw them later that night. For a little while, at least. We were drinking in
one of our apartments, with the music too loud, doing what we always did on
Saturday nights. We had almost forgotten about Alice Palmer when she walked
inside, holding Dillon’s hand. She smiled at us, and we smiled uncertainly
back. Katrina scowled. Alice didn’t seem to notice. Her grin just grew even
wider. And we got the feeling that we would be seeing an awful lot of this new,
laughing Alice, who for so long had been hidden behind biology textbooks.
The Lure of Marquette, by Debra Juday
As I leave Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, I cross the Mackinaw Bridge, the
Mighty Mac, pay the toll and enter God’s country, defined as such by those who reside
within it. I journey west, passing tourist traps and pasty shops strewn along
the route. Day changes into night as hours pass meaninglessly; driving
dissipates the stressors earned from life below the bridge. Then on the
horizon, along the shore of Lake Superior, a distant glimmering of light
catches my eye. The lone city lights of Marquette shimmer across the water of
Lake Superior. I have been waiting for this. My heart quickens at the prospect
of my imminent arrival. My soul lifts with anticipation of the respite yet to
be attained. Marquette is within view.
Marquette is a thriving regional hub that has vastly improved
over the past, when shopping was limited to a few businesses. Today there are
abundant retail venues available, connecting the traditional family operated
shops with that of the big-box retailers. These larger businesses can succeed
because of the population growth in the region, which supplies the revenue
needed to support their operation. The demand of the consumer allows for the
influx of these nationally recognized chains, but at the expense of the
survival of the smaller, owner-operated businesses in the area.
As
I enter the city limits, I roll down my windows and breathe in the fresh lake
air, heavily scented with pine trees and wildflowers. I follow Lake Shore Drive
until I get to Picnic Rocks. These are black rocks of extraordinary formations
that jut from the lake. As I sit and take in the view, my eye searches for an
ore boat in the distance. As I stare out at the lake, I see, approaching in the
distance, a tiny speck in such a large body of water. As it moves closer,
growing in size, it bellows from the distance and majestically enters the
harbor; tons of steel float, gliding across the water, gracefully stopping
alongside the ore dock to take on its heavy load. I listen to the splashing of
the waves lapping at the shore, the seagulls calling from the rocks, and the
children laughing on the sand as their parents call to them.
Marquette
is a jewel that sits on the shores of the most majestic of all the Great Lakes,
Lake Superior. It is comprised of an upper and lower harbor, both fundamental
in the establishment of the city, utilizing the deep natural waters of Superior
to accommodate the huge freighters needed to transport the large quantities of
iron ore mined in the region. An abandoned ore dock stands in the lower harbor. Its burnt orange coloring contrasts against the ever-changing
waters of Superior.
The
mood of the lake defines its beauty and reveals its strength. Smooth, calming
shades of blue on sunny days contrast with the moodiness of gray rolling waves,
crashing against the break wall as gales come thundering in. Over a hundred
years this ore dock has stood in these waters as a monument to the men and
women of the region who have endured the mining boom and fall. It is no longer
utilized for ore mining; the train trestle was long ago removed. The upper
harbor ore dock, a sister to this one, handles business now, but I can sit for
hours and gaze upon its architectural beauty as I ponder how life was lived in
the era of its usage. It was a difficult way of life not that long ago. The
upper harbor captures my curiosity and speaks to me. I feel slightly haunted by
the past, and a sadness I cannot explain engulfs me as I watch the lake
surround it.
Marquette
is the largest city located in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It is the area’s center
for higher education with Northern Michigan University located within its
borders. I have attended NMU’s football games inside the one-of-a-kind Superior
Dome, recognized as the world’s largest wooden dome structure by the Guinness
Book of World Records; it easily accommodates 16,000 people. Marquette General
Hospital is a regionally acclaimed health facility, providing quality care and
services. There are widely recognized recreation facilities, including miles of
hiking, snowmobiling and off-road trails. I have enjoyed climbing to the top of
Sugar Loaf Mountain, for it is here that I can obtain an unobstructed view of
the heavenly vista of Marquette on the edge of Lake Superior.
Marquette is a thriving regional hub that has vastly improved
over the past, when shopping was limited to a few businesses. Today there are
abundant retail venues available, connecting the traditional family operated
shops with that of the big-box retailers. These larger businesses can succeed
because of the population growth in the region, which supplies the revenue
needed to support their operation. The demand of the consumer allows for the
influx of these nationally recognized chains, but at the expense of the
survival of the smaller, owner-operated businesses in the area.
When I visit, I yearn for the more personal shopping experience
that is still available in a city that has not yet outgrown its personal charm.
A quaint little bookstore, appropriately named Snowbound Books, operating in an
old house, beckons me in to browse the shelves and feel the books. I softly whisper
the titles as I walk across the squeaky wooden floor, searching for that
must-read book. Excitedly, I purchase the treasure I have found, and the clerk
places it in a crisp paper sack, completing my memorable experience. This is
the only way to shop for books; I look forward to it every time I visit. Another traditional business, Wattsson and Wattsson
Jewelers, boasts a real mine within their store to educate people about the
history of mining in the region. Mining has been the major employer of the
region since the mid 1800s and has made a significant impact upon those who
reside in the Upper Peninsula. It is the personal touches that these smaller
local businesses provide that add to the charm of the area and enhance the visitor’s
experience.
Nobody
is a stranger in Marquette. The people as a community welcome all to their town
with an eagerness to share its uniqueness and rich history. There are museums
such as the De Vos Art Museum, The Marquette Maritime Museum, Cliffs Mine
Museum and the Upper Peninsula Children’s Museum, to name a few. Marquette’s Peter
White Public Library is nationally recognized for its unique collections of
books and movies. It is a perfect place to explore on a rainy day. The
courthouse is famous for its architectural beauty, trials and deliberations but
also for its book and movie credits. The Anatomy
of a Murder, with Actor Jimmy Stewart was filmed here in the 1959.
There
are also unique restaurants such as Elizabeth’s, The Sweetwater Café, and my
personal favorite, Donkers, an old-fashioned candy store that encompasses a soda
fountain and diner. When you walk through the doors of this establishment, the
smell of chocolate candy embraces your senses. Varieties of freshly made
confections are beautifully arranged in the glass display cases. The soda
fountain reminds me of a by-gone era, with its swivel stools and wooden booths.
Upstairs is a wonderful diner with unique selections all freshly prepared to
order. I enjoy eating in the front where the tables face windows with a scenic
view of a bustling downtown and the lake off in the horizon. President Obama
enjoyed a meal at Donkers during a visit to Marquette in 2011.
As
I enter the city limits, I roll down my windows and breathe in the fresh lake
air, heavily scented with pine trees and wildflowers. I follow Lake Shore Drive
until I get to Picnic Rocks. These are black rocks of extraordinary formations
that jut from the lake. As I sit and take in the view, my eye searches for an
ore boat in the distance. As I stare out at the lake, I see, approaching in the
distance, a tiny speck in such a large body of water. As it moves closer,
growing in size, it bellows from the distance and majestically enters the
harbor; tons of steel float, gliding across the water, gracefully stopping
alongside the ore dock to take on its heavy load. I listen to the splashing of
the waves lapping at the shore, the seagulls calling from the rocks, and the
children laughing on the sand as their parents call to them.
I
breathe in the damp, musty air of wood and decomposing leaves as I walk along
the path of my favorite park, Presque Isle. I can hear the rustling leaves as
the wind blows. The leaves make crunching noises as the deer trample them,
following their well-worn path through the dense forest not far from where
humans frequent. Then as I reach the opening, Lake Superior is before me in all
her beauty. Along the horizon is Sugarloaf and Little Presque Isle and, as the
sun sets, the light changes, emphasizing the highlights and shadows like a
painting. Hundreds of people have stopped at Sunset Point to take pictures,
trying to capture the beauty before them. But I have learned that it cannot be
captured. It must be felt deeply in the heart and soul and released, only to be
sought again another day. Each day, like each season, brings with it a unique
beauty and tranquility.
I
enjoy walking along the beaches in spring, collecting the newly uncovered agates
that wash upon the shore, tossed inward from the turbulent waves of a wintery
Lake Superior. Finding one of these precious stones is a reward for braving the
chilly air so early in the season. In the summer months, there are days of hot
breezes to be enjoyed along the miles of Lake Superior shore. I walk to McCarty’s
Cove and gaze upon the lighthouse just off shore, housed on its own island. Fishing,
boating, and sailing are all relished by those who venture north to this rugged
terrain. Only the bravest can tolerate the influx of numerous insects found in
this area during this time of the year. Tales have been told of the enormous
size of the black flies that invade this beautiful country, driving even the
sanest person crazy with their constant buzz and biting. I enjoy the fall as
the cool nights and warm days bring forth vivid colors, an abundance of
colorful trees seen from multitudes of elevations, filling the eyes with
extraordinary beauty, which could fill a painter’s pallet.
The
snow defines the land, it owns it, and it covers everything in a heavy blanket
of white. It towers over people, automobiles and even houses. It makes life
difficult to maneuver. It is also the most beautiful encasement for the
surrounding area. When everything is covered in white, the landscape appears
soft, beautiful and delicate. Snow brings forth new tests of strength and
endurance for the people who live in the area. They do not shy away from the
snow; they embrace it, enjoy it, live for it, and beckon for it to come. The
dog sledder, snowmobiler, ice fisherman and the brave, or insane, lake surfers
find joy in the snow. I find it beautiful and entrancing. It maintains a
magical quality that snow from downstate cannot attain, for it is Yooper
snow.
I
have formed a connection with Marquette that I cannot find anywhere else. I
belong here. It speaks to me. My soul longs for its distinctiveness. When life
is stressful and overwhelming, a trip to Marquette will set my world straight.
I follow Lake Shore Drive along the curve of the shore as I exit the city. It
is a tradition, and a final goodbye. Until next time, I say farewell to my
favorite place.
A Spot of Time, by Alina Aelenei
There
are places that are so deeply engraved in our minds, that the mere memory of
those places can make us feel happy. For me, that special place is the kitchen
of the home where I grew up. It was a place where the entire family gathered.
We had our most meaningful and memorable conversations in this place. However,
due to the events that have changed our lives, the moments we now share in the
kitchen as a family are rare. For this reason, the kitchen will always be
cherished “spot of time.”
The kitchen was a gathering place where we spent of lot of time because it is where my mother always was. The dining table was a part of the kitchen, and this is where my four siblings and I sat to be near our mother. My mother has always loved cooking, and she made meals that required hours of preparation. Some of my fondest memories are of my mother teaching me to prepare meals. She would bring vibrant vegetables, pungent garlic, and fragrant herbs to the dining table where I sat so I could chop them up while she continued to cook in the kitchen.
The home
we grew up in was in Plymouth, Michigan. From the kitchen window we had the
view of our backyard. In the warmer months we could see tall, deep-rooted
trees, lush green grass, my mother’s bountiful garden, our aboveground pool and
trampoline from the window.
During
my childhood, my father owned a tile installation business, so our kitchen was
covered in tiles. The kitchen was tiled with beige and cream-colored ceramic
tile everywhere, from the floor to the countertops and backsplash. We even had
tiles halfway up the wall in the kitchen. A glass fireplace surrounded by
cream-colored granite separated the kitchen and living room. Our father built
the ivory marble kitchen table. The oak-colored cabinets were filled with
aromatic spices, crunchy breakfast cereals, tomato-based sauces, and starchy
noodles and bread. The refrigerator was covered in photos of my family, holiday
cards from friends and extended family, and flamboyant artwork created by my
younger siblings.
The kitchen was a gathering place where we spent of lot of time because it is where my mother always was. The dining table was a part of the kitchen, and this is where my four siblings and I sat to be near our mother. My mother has always loved cooking, and she made meals that required hours of preparation. Some of my fondest memories are of my mother teaching me to prepare meals. She would bring vibrant vegetables, pungent garlic, and fragrant herbs to the dining table where I sat so I could chop them up while she continued to cook in the kitchen.
Every day
after school, my siblings and I would go straight to the table in the kitchen
and eat an after-school snack that my mother had
prepared. At the table we would all share stories about our eventful day,
discuss our grades, and work on homework. My father worked many late nights, so
my mother always served a late dinner for him when he arrived. Although my
siblings and I had already eaten dinner, we would sit with my parents at the
colossal 6’ x 9’ foot table and devour scrumptious cookies with milk. The
kitchen was our living area, as that is where we spent most of our time
together.
The
dynamic of our family and our lovely home have changed with the passing years.
The children have grown into adults and, in turn, the members of our robust
family slowly disconnected from the place we called home. One by one, as my
siblings and I aspired to follow our dreams, the kitchen grew unoccupied and
quiet. The delectable meals my mother laboriously cooked at one time became
rare. The kitchen is bare, as it is now merely filled with the memories of our
youth. The only material item from the kitchen that remains after the last of
our family moved out of the home we grew up in is the sturdy marble dining
table that once accommodated a family of seven. That table, blurred memories,
and candid photos are the only effects left of our unforgettable, cherished
kitchen.
Today,
when my family and I stand in our new kitchen, we have moments that remind us
of the “spot in time” spent in the kitchen where we grew up. Although it is
rare to have the entire family together, when we do, we still sit at the table
while my mom cooks savory meals. We still share our stories that are now about
our college experiences, our jobs, and our relationships and try to recall the fading
memories we had in our kitchen many years ago.
Breakfast Blues, by Eriq Gale-Anderson
A day without breakfast is a day without cheerNo sunny-side up, no jam to smear
Our smell crumbles
While our belly rumbles
No bacon pick-ups or ham fill-ups
Only dying taste buds and dry hiccups
No pillows of pancakes to comfort
Only rising sensation to suffer
No butter to liven taste buds
No sausage to give your stomach hugs
Just plain emptiness to show its ugly mug
To mock our hunger and not show love.
The Kindergarten Princess Experience, by Vanessa Timmons
Monday, September 13, 1993, was a life-changing
moment for me. I was starting Kindergarten. The whole night before, I kept
running up and down the hallways, screaming at the top of my lungs, “I’m a big
girl now; I’m a school princess!” In my mind, school was going to be everything
I thought it would be: coloring, friends, basketball, Play-doh, pizza, and
candy. Even though we didn’t play with Play-doh, everything else was my dream
that came true.
After our “test,” we colored a big book
bag with a lunch box and pencils on the page. My coloring sheet was going to be
the best, I thought, because my book bag was going to be the Crayola color
carnation pink, just like a Princess would have. As I gently pressed the pink
carnation on my coloring sheet, Pierre asked, “What color should I color my
page, Vanessa?” Shocked that Pierre asked me, I answered, “Any color you think
is best.” At the end of the coloring portion of class Pierre gave me his
coloring sheet, saying, “I colored this for you, Vanessa. It has my favorite
color green and your favorite color pink.” I was so surprised because Pierre
had a crush on me, and maybe I thought about having a first-day crush, too.
As my Winnie the Pooh alarm clock buzzed
at 7:00a.m., I got out of bed without any hesitation. Joyfully getting ready
was the most incredible moments of the day. After I bathed and dressed, I was
surprised with a very special “Kinder-G Breakfast” that included sausage,
raisin toast, scrambled eggs, strawberries and blueberries with Tropicana
orange juice in my favorite Winnie the Pooh cup.
At 7:55, my fresh, new pair of all-white
L.A. Gears with pink lights hit the concrete one by one as I walked to the bus
stop at the end of my block. I was scared and nervous as Ms. Louise pulled up
in a big yellow bus, saying, “Good morning, pretty young lady. I’m Ms. Louise,
your Blue Bunny bus driver.” The bus ride was very loud, but fun as the radio
played 97.9. I remember Jodeci playing very loudly as the whole bus sung along
in unison. The girl next to me, Paige Patton, a 4th grader, was very
nice. She said, “You’re in Kindergarten? Wow, you are going to have an amazing
time.” As I smiled I was thinking, “I hope Paige is right.”
As we arrived at Baylor-Woodson
Elementary School, the big clock in the middle of the building struck 8:15. I
got off the bus, and my very first teacher, Ms. Solomon, approached me and
said, “Hello there, Vanessa. Are you ready for Kindergarten?” Eager to enter the
classroom, I sat where my name was at the yellow table with three other people.
Pierre, Andrea, and Jonathan were sitting quietly, waiting to see if I was
going to say something.
Sitting in silence for the first few
minutes, I finally introduced myself and that’s when the fun began. Once the
class was settled, Ms. Solomon gave us a blank paper and asked us to write our
first name, ABCs, and our favorite color. I finished first, and I noticed a lot
of students were not writing anything at all. I wondered if I was doing
something wrong but, as I got older, I understood that not every 4- or 5-year-old
knows the simple fundamentals entering Kindergarten.
Since we were the youngest, we had A
lunch with the other five kindergarten classes and first graders. To
my surprise, we had cheese pizza bits (my favorite), pears, carrots, and milk.
This was a lunch meant for a Princess, exactly what I wanted and liked. Lunch
was noisy with different conversations going on everywhere. I was pretty
excited about what thrilling event was going to take place next. Then a tall,
slim man stood in front of a door and said, “Are you little people ready for an
outside adventure?” I was confused about what he was talking about, until he
opened the door front that lead outside. The whole cafeteria charged to the exit
to see what was so exciting outside waiting for us. There we saw many different
toys, basketballs, jump ropes, chalk, swings, jungle gyms, monkey bars and much
more waiting for us to explore.
Following our lunch and recess, I began
to feel tired. Sitting down next to Andrea, I wondered if she was just as tired
as I was. Ms. Solomon softly said, “It’s quiet time,” turning the lights off,
giving us a chance to calm down. As the class sat quietly, with our heads down
on the table, we were secretly taking a nap. I don’t remember how long we were
in quiet time, but it was enough for me to get rejuvenated.
Waking up to play a game called Name the
Animal, I was on teams with Jonathan. It seemed weird because I really hadn’t
talk to Jonathan all day. However, for the game, we won together equally,
getting two pieces of Laffy Taffy each. Finally, as our day ended, Ms. Solomon
pinned a note on our coats, color-coded according to the color animal bus we
were distributed to.
Arriving home, I remember meeting my mom
after I got off the bus, jumping into her arms with excitement, trying to tell
her everything that I did in one breath. My dad had my favorite snack waiting
for me: peanut butter and apples with graham crackers. He knew I had a lot to
say and that we would talk about it for more than an hour. I had the best first
day of Kindergarten, as I knew I would. After, all I was the Kindergarten
Princess.
Life is a Gift Given from God, by Erick Roth
We breathe the air, We smell the sea,
We take on dares,
We climb tall trees,
Without these things we would not be,
We’d have no eyes and could not see,
God is great in His many ways,
All you have to do is ask and pray,
We sometimes take life for granted,
When we lose all hope, a seed is planted,
So never give up because life is too short,
It’s like having a hot day and building a snow fort.
Last Call, by Eriq Gale-Anderson
A force as cold and pale as the winter
ice, Hair as black as a panther,
Eyes as red as the pits of hell,
A ferocity as dark as the devil’s soul,
Carries out lives of turmoil and despair for others,
Like in our world, but isn’t seen,
Watches and waits for one of us to fail,
Takes us from our world to forever darkness,
He is death (Grim Reaper).
Vivid Spiritual Warnings, by Kathleen Marcath
This most famous epic of war, The Song of Roland is a spiritual holy
war between God and Satan. The Christians are represented by Emperor
Charlemayn, Roland and Oliver. They battle against the pagan empire, represented
by the King Marsilion, Blancandrin and their legions. Seeking revenge on Roland, Ganelon negotiates
with evil to betray all of Heaven. The sword, a mighty weapon for valiant warriors,
represents the Spirit of God’s Word, which vividly directs man to discern his own
heart. Defining and choosing, good and evil, being Christian or pagan, are
shadowed by those who lay down their faith and battled in a spiritual holy war with
moral and spiritually justifications.
This epic is a holy war, a battle
between spiritual forces of Heaven and hell. It is holy faith that Ganelon lays
down before his fate is sealed. The epic reads, “He sware the treason and sware
his faith away” (608). He sold his birthright of grace to get even with Roland
and betray the Emperor. Swearing on a sword was a symbol of valor and honor
among the vassals and kings; it was a sacred pledge. With this deed Ganelon,
along with all who held allegiance to Saragossa’s reign, agreed to bondage of
hell’s victory. They took the devil’s bait and become his vassals doomed to
hell. The forces of Heaven could no longer prevail over their souls. The moral
lesson of this spiritual epic is justified when one understands the grave
importance of servitude of good over evil.
Like Adam and Eve began in the garden,
set before the tree of knowledge that possessed both good and evil, The Song of Roland begins with two
kingdoms, each in their garden. Each has a choice of good or evil. From the
start it is known the King of Saragossa “hates God’s name” (7). Emperor Charlemayn often prayed, had visions,
and was guided by God’s angel Gabriel. King Marsilion, while in the company of
twenty thousand, quickly took side with one man’s words, the conniving
Blancandrin. The King then appointed, “ten matchless villains” to kill God’s
Emperor (69). At the same time, they plotted with Ganelon to also crucify
Roland. Emperor Charlemayn “was a man not hasty in reply/But wont to speak only
when well advise” (142-143). The language of this epic is very clear: There
is good and evil, and the force of good will
win over the forces of evil. The immense importance of this epic is that one’s
soul cannot be saved after death; it must be a choice made while yet alive. If
Christianity is not chosen, then death will result and to the devil’s grove,
the unbeliever will go. Through the illustration of war, The Song of Roland represents a spiritual holy war.
This epic is a holy war, a battle
between spiritual forces of Heaven and hell. It is holy faith that Ganelon lays
down before his fate is sealed. The epic reads, “He sware the treason and sware
his faith away” (608). He sold his birthright of grace to get even with Roland
and betray the Emperor. Swearing on a sword was a symbol of valor and honor
among the vassals and kings; it was a sacred pledge. With this deed Ganelon,
along with all who held allegiance to Saragossa’s reign, agreed to bondage of
hell’s victory. They took the devil’s bait and become his vassals doomed to
hell. The forces of Heaven could no longer prevail over their souls. The moral
lesson of this spiritual epic is justified when one understands the grave
importance of servitude of good over evil.
The
Song of Roland vividly
and viciously describes the sword at work in moral and spiritual justification
for holy war. Emperor Charlemayn is charged to do battle as God’s army, Sayers
writes, “But God will not he be o’ercome or killed/ Saint Gabriel comes
hastening down to him” (3609-3610). Detailed description of Charlemayn’s fight
against the King chants in rhyme for pages. The work of his sword vividly separates
the false treasures, divides his mortal existence from the evil spirit behind his
face, “He carves the helm with jewel-stones ablaze/He splits the skull, he
dashes out the brains/Down to the beard he cleaves him through the face/And, past
all healing, he flings him down, clean slain” (3615-3619). The holy war is an
escalating spiritual battle equally fierce that vividly reveals the result of
falling faith. Countless examples, justified by the sword, were fought in this
spiritual battle. The battle that belongs to God is carried out by divine orders,
given through visions and visits from the angel Gabriel, directly to the
Emperor.
The forces of good and evil are clearly
represented by the Christians, who are led by Emperor Charlemayn and the villains
of Saragossa under the control of King Marsilion. The Song of Roland is an epic of a holy war; it is one of a
spiritual nature that looks deep into one's soul. The
horrific descriptions of pain and loss are warnings to choose wisely the forces one chooses to serve. Charlemayn,
like God, will not quit fighting for the spiritual life of every man. Saragossa
and Ganelon represent the dark souls of men, fighting Satan’s battle against
God. The driving force, the motivation to get even, was fueled by anger and hate,
and only resulted in a death sentence. Therefore the spiritual battle,
illustrated by this holy war, is justified to save souls from the senseless destruction
of evil.
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